


blown in on an ill wind

by redbrunja



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Badass women being badass, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Friendship, Max Brings Furiosa Gifts, Porn with Feelings, Smut, The Wives ship Max/Furiosa, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Max returns to the citadel. The sun is low, the shadow of his car stretching out long and dark before him. The headlights are off. There is trouble just past the horizon, vehicles hidden behind the sand dunes, dust clouds boiling up into the sunset-red bowl of sky. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Just before trouble arrives, Max returns to the Citadel with bullets and a goat. Though he is what Furiosa can make the most use of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the calm before

Max returns to the citadel. The sun is low, the shadow of his car stretching out long and dark before him. The headlights are off. There is trouble just past the horizon, vehicles hidden behind the sand dunes, dust clouds boiling up into the sunset-red bowl of sky. The stars gleam dimly above him.

 

The goat in the passenger seat tries to clamber over the seat back, neck stretching and teeth reaching for the boxes of bullets piled in the back seat.

 

Max blocks her with his arm, pushes her away, and she starts to chew at the dashboard, already scored with her teethmarks.

 

He slows as he approaches the Citadel.

 

It's worryingly quiet. Flashes of faces in high windows, no workers at the Citadel base.

 

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Stay on the road? swerve off?

 

He stays.

 

His tires are crawling when he comes within sight of the loading platform, suspended high above the ground.

 

He's half a kilometer away from the base of the rocks when a rope drops from the platform, a figure sliding down, quick as a raindrop.

 

It's Toast. She trots to his car. Her hair is shorter than when he last saw her, buzzed as closely as Furiosa's and she wears a black scarf around her neck, rifle over her shoulder.

 

"Hiya stranger," she calls. She double-takes at the animal in his front seat and darts to the driver's side window, sticking her head inside and peering past him.

 

He ruffles his hand over her hair in greeting.

 

Toast blinks and then straightens, waving at the figures watching her, up high.

 

The loading platform descends.

 

When he reaches the top, Capable is waiting, fingers and palms black with oil, cadre of war boys orbiting around her. She dashes past them, jumping the last few feet before the platform is level.

 

"Furiosa's on her way," she tells him.

 

"Capable, look," Toast says, and they peer at the goat.

 

"Is that–" Capable starts.

 

"A goat," Toast the Knowing answers, the faintest uptick of a question at the end of her words.

 

The two girls look at him.

 

Max nods.

 

"You have a goat?" Capable asks

 

Max shakes his head, makes a sweeping-away gesture with his hand.

 

Toast and Capable look at each other, the goat, and then Capable pushes forward, hugging him tightly, arms around his middle. He pats her head.

 

Looking past her, he sees Furiosa enter the machine bay. There is a visible ripple in the people surrounding them; attention centering on her.

 

Furiosa strides forward. The corner of her mouth has the faintest uptick of welcome. When she's before him, his hand rises to cup her neck, mirroring her motions. They stand together, foreheads touching. His calloused fingers rest on the raised skin of the skull brand at her neck. He can feel her breath against his lips. He inhales. Dust, cool water, engine grease, growing things. Furiosa.

 

She rocks back on her heels, looks over his shoulder.

 

"That's..." she starts.

 

"A goat!" Capable says excitedly. She and Toast look between Furiosa, Max, the goat.

The goat decides to make another try for the bullets.

 

There's an awkward scrum involving too many elbows that ends with Toast awkwardly holding the goat, Capable and several war boys pressed into unloading the ammunition, Max watching that the bullets are _all_ they take. Furiosa is leaning in through an open door, checking how much water he has stored in the floor-well of the passenger side, looking at the gauges, seeing how much guzzaline he has left.

 

"It's easy enough to top you up," Furiosa says, voice oddly serious for a conversation they've had before.

 

"We've got trouble coming," she continues. "Might be a good idea to keep moving."

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Max sees Toast glare at Furiosa.

 

He shrugs, head making a yes-no gesture.

 

He looks out of the cavern's mouth, past the fortifications, as if to check the weather.

 

"...head out in a few days," his voice sounds like a man just deciding.

 

Furiosa puts her right hand on his shoulder, squeezes once.

 

Following her towards the kitchens, he finds all the people who hadn't been at the base of the Citadel. They're filling the largest of the inner caverns, and Max doesn't manage to step foot inside them before the yammering voices, almost a physical mass, reach him, and he recoils.

 

Furiosa catches his reaction and grabs a passing war pup. His eyes are painted dark, but the hair is growing in, soft reddish-brown, on his head. She tells him to bring two meals to the upper gardens, and Max follows her up many sets of switch-backing stairs.

 

It's full dark. There are torches set throughout the gardens, but they remain unlit. The gibbous moon gives enough light to see by, even as it leeches color, turning rock and sand to dull chrome, the greenery to nothing but different gradients of grey.

 

There are sentries set along the garden's edge.

 

Max and Furiosa both keep their eyes toward the horizon as they eat. Their dinner is accompanied by the rustle of the breeze through the leaves, occasional shouts from down below. As they sip cool, mint-flavored water, the cheerful, insistent sound of drums, the frenetic shriek of a electric guitar, rises from the tunnels threaded through the rocks below them.

 

Then they're finished, the same war boy who brought their dinner darts forward, takes their dishes, dashes off.

 

They sit under the stars for a while.

 

It's quiet when they reach Furiosa's room, tucked away from the main thoroughfares. She's already boarded up her windows.

 

Max rolls his shoulders, a jagged, nervy feeling going through him as he closes her door. He doesn't bar it.

 

He watches as Furiosa unbuckles her arm, bends to unlace her boots, the line of her spine relaxed.

 

He steps behind her as she unwraps her top, brushes his lips across the line of her shoulders, the brand at the base of her neck.

 

She arches, turns to him.

 

Furiosa ducks her head a little, slants her mouth across his. She tastes of mint and sweetness. Her tongue is quick, flirting, and he follows as she walks backwards to her bed. He's biting at her bottom lip, making a low, rumbling sound in the base of his throat.

 

She pushes her trousers down her legs, settling herself on the bed while he strips, movements brisk, impatient.

 

Furiosa opens her legs to him, bright blonde curls at the apex of her thighs, flushed pink flesh. The sight is dizzying.

 

Max runs his calloused hands along her thighs, slow, slow, her smooth skin catching on his rough hands. She's staring at him, steady, eyes bright. He can never look at her straight when she's like this, bare and sleek and fearless. He sees her in glimpses, the graduations of her tanned skin, the silvery marks of scars, the strong curve of muscle. The hard buds of her nipples, the length of her legs, the relaxed line of her arm, propping herself up.

 

She hooks her foot around the thigh of his good leg, urging him closer.

 

He spreads her open, calloused thumbs sliding her slickness along the impossibly soft folds of her. He's always carefully with this, his rough fingers against her. She squirms and presses herself harder into his touch.

 

He puts his mouth on her. She's wet, gloriously wet, sex-sweet against his mouth. He licks and kisses until she's dripping down his chin, until her thighs shake and heels dig into his back with the force of her climax.

 

After, Furiosa breathes deeply, eyes closed.

 

He rests his chin on the her thigh, watches her.

 

Several moments later, she reaches down, pats his head approvingly, running her fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

 

She cups her hand around the base of his skull, tugs him up the bed.

 

He shifts himself, sits with his back against the wall. Furiosa wraps her arm around his shoulders, knees bracketing his hips, digging in, steadying herself.

 

She sinks down on him, her cunt slick and tight and hot and it feels so good - it always feels so good - that the pleasure skews into pain and back, sharp, bright sparks along his spine, his dick achingly hard.

 

He jerks his hips up, thrusts into her, needy. His hands are curled around the curve of her ass, pulling her onto him. Furiosa's hold on his shoulder tightens. When his cock hits a sweet spot inside of her, her short nails dig into his skin hard enough to scratch, a gasp catching in her throat.

 

He steals glances at her face, the flush across her cheeks. Her pupils are dilated, black, her irises the blue of clean water, bright.

 

Time stretches endless.

 

He licks the sweat off the line of her neck, salt-sweet-Furiosa, scrapes his teeth against her pulse-point. She clenches around him, and he spills in her, a whine trapped in the back of his throat.


	2. courting gifts

Furiosa wakes early. The edges of her windows, between the boards, are outlined in gunmetal-grey light. Max is on his back, one hand by his head, close to the shotgun propped against the wall, his other resting just above the curve of her waist, where he can feel each breath she takes. She's curled on her right side, prosthetic arm reaching out, her metal fingers curled around the edge of the bed. She and Max have slept through the coolest hours of the morning.

 

She sits up, rolls her shoulders, checks that her metal arm hasn't shifted during her sleep. Her shoulder aches a bit, from the tension, but she wouldn't have been able to get any sleep at all if she'd kept it off.

 

She'd taken it off when they'd fucked, gotten lost in his pistoning hips, the salt-sweat taste of his skin under her tongue. She'd spent a pleasant time taking shuddery breaths in the aftermath, before her awareness of the threat that circled her Citadel had her dressing again, boots and belts and arm and knives, gun near to hand. Max was the same, pulling on his pants and lacing his boots, strapping his brace on and resting a saw-off shotgun against the wall. Though, he hadn't bothered with his shirt or his jacket.

 

She feels Max's eyes on her.

 

She looks over her shoulder.

 

Furiosa leans towards him, cups the nape of his neck in her hand. When she pulls away, fingers dragging along the rough stubble at his jaw, he tips his head, presses a kiss to her palm.

 

She leaves him in her room, climbs the stairs upwards. He won't be there when she returns. She knows when she next sees him, he'll be down in the garages with the black thumbs, or keeping watch along one of the parapets, rifle in his hands.

 

It's still a nice image to walk away from, to think of him in the cool shadows of her room, rumple-haired and bare-chested, pectorals bruised with the marks her teeth and lips had left.

 

She finds The Dag and Toast in the lower level of the gardens, Toast perched at the rim with a rifle, The Dag carefully clipping back burned plants, deciding what can be salvaged and what had been irreparably damaged.

 

It's been eight days since the Bullet Town raiders showed up at the base of the Citadel. They'd spent five days finding every trap Toast, Capable, and Capable's War Boys had set and turning the sand red with their blood.

 

Now, they've settled in to die of sunstroke and thirst. Furiosa has placed snipers at windows and ledges and cliff-tops. They're ready for the slow attrition to come.

 

Furiosa touches Toast's shoulder gently, switches positions with the girl.

 

If there is one thing Furiosa knows how to do, it's bide her time.

 

She pulls the canvas fabric over her head, shading herself from the sun. She lets herself sink into a prone pose, finds where the raiders are hiding with her scope.

 

Toast has been here since sun-down. She steps away for a few moments but returns shortly, going to keep The Dag company.

 

"You should rest," Furiosa instructs when it's clear that Toast has no intention of doing so.

 

"Who needs sleep?" Toast asks, an edge to her flippancy.

 

"Not flames or the wind," The Dag comments and then laughs.

 

Furiosa listens to the girls work, the shush of plants, the clip of the Dag's sheers.

 

"Miss Giddy says that a goat is a traditional courting gift," Toast says abruptly. Furiosa can't read her tone.

 

She doesn't look away from her scope. Below her, a person has shifted to keep himself under shade, unaware of the way his head is starting to hover past the shelter of an open car door.

 

"He brought ammo as well," Furiosa finally decides on. "Not for the first time."

 

"Clever, for a crazy man," The Dag adds, and Toast chokes on a giggle.

 

Furiosa squeezes the trigger. Crack of a gun shot, dead corpse in her scope, an aborted shout from raiders below. One of the corpse's fellows goes to drag him further under the vehicle. It's not a clean shot, but she takes it; when the second raider crawls away, he leaves his foot and lower leg behind him, the sand turning red.

 

"Smarter to leave before all this," Furiosa notes. She doesn't let herself forget that Max's home is the road and the wasteland and his solitude.

 

"Capable thinks he's courting you," Toast has her teeth into this topic, apparently. Furiosa can't tell if she's actually invested or if it's something to keep her mind off the raiders below them. Three days ago, when it had become clear that the raiders were not going to be dissuaded by their initial losses, it had taken Furiosa, Capable, and several of the less suicidal war boys to keep Toast and many of the more suicidal war boys from descending down and finishing it in an afternoon.

 

("You'd be finishing _us_ in an afternoon," Capable had hissed. "Even if you win. Enough of our boys die, who is going to fight the next group of schlangers who come along?"

 

Toast had finally listened but she hadn't liked it.)

 

Toast crawls back over to where Furiosa is perched, settling herself with her back to low wall edging the gardens. She rests her wrist on her bent knees, watches Dag work, her pale hair and pale hands moving delicately among the plants.

 

"The Fool doesn't know he's courting Furiosa," The Dag comments. She holds up a section of burned greenery, grinds it between her palms, and then buries in the soil. "Too long in the desert. He lost the knowing of a lot of things."

 

Furiosa listens to the rustle of the Dag working, the wind tugging at the canvas around her body and Toast's hood.

 

"How much is 'a lot of things'?" Toast asks The Dag in a carrying whisper.

 

"The Imperator keeps letting him in her bed..." The Dag replies with a shrug. "Must remember one or two."

 

Furiosa makes a 'tch' sound.

 

"Three then?" Toast says around a toothy grin, eyes fixed on Furiosa's face, waiting for her reaction.

 

Furiosa listens to the wind, waits for another target. She can smell green, growing things, curling through the scent of smoke. She wishes, distantly, that Angarahad could have heard this conversation. Angarahad would have smiled for _days,_ to hear this conversation.

 

She's never had much talent for light, bawdy talk, so her voice sounds grim and serious to her own ears when she says, "maybe four."

 

There is a beat of delighted silence and then The Dag and Toast look at each other against each other and _howl._

 

Toast tips over to her side, tears glinting on her eyelashes.

 

Their laughter echoes down the rocks, distorting into a sound with teeth and claws.

 

A curious head peers up from under the shadow of a vehicle’s undercarriage and Furiousa has one less bullet and one less enemy.


End file.
